Lady Charlotte and the Lending Library (The Rogue’s Alliance #1)

Chapter One

A pril 1816, London

Lady Charlotte Beaumont stood, trembling, in her ill-fitting boots. Looking up at the cloudy, gray sky, she shivered momentarily as a gust of wind swept over her. The muted colors of the heavens, street, and surrounding buildings did not reflect an early arrival of spring, and the weather was chillier than expected for April.

She cautiously leaned over the black iron railing in front of White’s gentleman’s club as she attempted glimpse the hallowed interior that lay beyond the famous bow window.

Her enormous brown wool coat was left unbuttoned, revealing worn but unsoiled clothing beneath. Charlotte wore loose gray linen pants and a black long-sleeved woolen shirt with a leather belt knotted over it to hold the pants up. A gray wool cap pulled low hid most of her features and her hair. Soot smeared haphazardly on her cheeks and chin completed her disguise.

It was nearly ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and although most of the ton were still in their beds, the city was not asleep by any means. Housemaids and other servants hurried about errands for their employers. Tradesman’s wagons could be heard and seen jostling for position on the road. She’d loitered at the corner of St. James’s Street for several minutes, waiting to ensure there were no passersby in the vicinity of the famous club.

As she strained to see anything or anyone through the thin panes of glass in the window, she began to think her visit to White’s would be of little help in her quest.

A moment later, Charlotte felt her heart jump into her throat as she heard the front door of the club open. After quickly taking three paces back from the window she looked up briefly to see a well-dressed gentleman exit the door to her right.

The man’s clothing proclaimed he was a member of the peerage and not an employee of the gentleman’s club. His navy coat, white linen shirt with expertly tied cravat, cream-colored waistcoat, and trousers were of the finest quality. His hat and walking stick looked new. Her brief perusal of his face revealed pleasant features and striking cobalt blue eyes.

The gentleman descended the steps and strolled to stand beside her. She quickly lowered her gaze, nervously clenching work-gloved hands at her side. If she were recognized as a lady of the ton, her reputation would be in tatters. More importantly to her mind, if her parents found out she’d visited St. James’s Street, it might well cost her father’s coachman his position.

“I wonder where Dawkins is today?” the gentleman beside her asked conversationally, his tone light. His voice was rich, a throaty baritone, covering her senses like warm chocolate. The intoxicating cologne with citrus notes he wore was a blend she wasn’t familiar with.

Charlotte felt a frisson of awareness at his nearness and hurriedly bowed her head. She cleared her throat before replying in a low gravelly voice, “Who be Dawkins , my lord?”

“The majordomo of White’s. Is there someone inside the club you wanted to speak with?” the gentleman asked, an edge to his words. He turned his head to look at her, and she bowed her head even further to keep her face hidden.

“I merely need a peek inside,” she replied gruffly, keeping her tone respectful as she crossed her arms over her chest. The white-grey Portland stone edifice of White’s towered over her, mocking her attempt to discover its secrets. To her dismay, her voice squeaked as she added, “To see what is so special about the famous bow window.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said shortly, his attention returning to the building in front of them. “It could seriously damage the reputation of a young lady to be seen loitering on St. James’s Street.”

“That is unfair!” The man had guessed that she was a female! Her best friend Louisa had been skeptical about Charlotte’s disguise. It pained her to think the other girl was right. Again. She paused to take a deep, steadying breath. Pitching her voice even lower, she stated, “I have no interest in the reputation of spoiled debutantes.”

A thickly muscled man in blue livery appeared at the door of White’s and made to descend the steps toward them. The man next to her raised a hand. The liveried man retraced his steps and stood beside the front entrance of the club, his attention on Charlotte and the gentleman beside her.

Looking up briefly, her eyes widened at the sight of such a mountain of a man. “Is that Dawkins?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

“That’s him.” She saw a brief, wolfish smile on her companion’s lips. “I think it is time you move along. Shall I escort you to a more appropriate neighborhood for a woman, or would you prefer Dawkins haul you away by the scruff of your neck?”

Not only had her disguise failed, but she had seen little of the interior of the club. All she could do now was to return to her father’s town carriage and make sure no one in polite society recognized her.

Shoulders slumping, she held back a sigh. Giving up any attempt at disguising her soft lilting speech, she replied softly, “My friend is waiting for me near Hatchard’s. I will leave now as there is nothing more to see here.”

* * * * *

“A shford, there is a small shabby person in the street below peering in the bow window. I wonder where the majordomo has gotten to?”

Lord Benedict Grey, Marquess of Ashford, looked up from the day’s issue of The Times he was reading. He stared down at the thin, poorly dressed man who stood on the pavement outside the gentleman’s club. “The man looks harmless enough, Cecil.”

Ashford folded his newspaper and placed it on the white tablecloth covering the square mahogany table in front of him. Seated in the coffee room of White’s beside one of the front windows, the two men had an excellent view of the pavement below.

As George Bryan “Beau” Brummel had not been seen at the club in recent weeks, the fellow lurking in front of the club would be disappointed if his aim were to catch a glimpse of the arbiter of fashion who it was claimed now stayed hidden from society to escape his gambling debts. Brummell's last wager in White’s betting book was dated March 1815 and was now marked not paid.

Rumor had it Brummell might soon decamp to the continent. There was a lesson to be learned from the infamous dandy’s unrestrained expenditures Ashford was sure the young bucks of the ton would ignore.

With Brummell scarce, William Arden, second Baron Lord Alvanley, now took pride of place in the bow window set. Ashford hadn’t seen anyone seated today at the table of honor in the morning room on the ground floor of the club.

He swallowed the remaining coffee in his delicate porcelain cup , replaced it on its matching saucer, and came to his feet. He bowed to his companion Lord Cecil Wycliffe.

“Are you leaving already?” the viscount asked, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table.

A brief smile touching his lips, Ashford nodded. “But for a moment. I will return after I investigate the man in the street.”

“I don’t know why you must investigate,” Cecil replied with a heavy sigh, stopping the movement of his fingers. "Although I’m not surprised. You’ve been on edge ever since you heard the chatter about Lady Caroline Lamb publishing a book. Caro has old scores to settle with the patronesses of Almack’s. I’m sure that will take precedence over any misdeeds by Diana.”

“You know how vindictive the lady is,” he responded with a frown.

Cecil nodded. “Quite.”

“I won’t rest easy until I know whether Diana is included in that book.” He stared down at the coffee grounds in his cup. The excellent brew and good company had done little to lift his pensive mood. He was restless because he preferred the fresh country air of Kent to the sooty environment of London. If not for parliament, he would never come to Town.

With his tall beaver hat and walking stick in hand, Ashford left the coffee room, took the main staircase down to the ground floor, and exited the building.

The man in rags continued to lurk near the bow window. Ashford wondered at the absence of the major domo who should have already ushered the vagrant away. The skulking man was of medium height, a few inches shorter than his own six feet. Ashford ambled to the side of the man and stood, whistling. He shuddered, missing the warmth of the fire in the coffee room. He'd left his caped greatcoat in the club.

If the vagrant desired a ha’penny or two, he would find no luck with the tight-fisted clientele in the gentleman’s club.

When Ashford proceeded to engage the man in conversation, he discovered the sound of the tramp’s voice was surprisingly youthful and struck him as oddly feminine. When the vagrant folded his arms across his chest, the movement brought a whiff of fragrance to Ashford’s nostrils. His companion was a woman. The scent was expensive: tuberose. Unless she had filched the perfume, rags were not her usual attire.

“I will leave now as there is nothing more to see here.”

Her speech convinced him she was not only female but possibly well educated. Her diction was too perfect. Perhaps she was a companion or governess. The appearance of her hands might give him a further clue to her status, but they were stuffed into the pockets of her oversized coat.

Most of London society knew that a woman must not walk or ride along St. James’s Street, where several gentleman’s clubs, White’s, Boodle’s, and Brooks’s, were located. A lady not only risked her standing in polite society but could also be openly gawked at in the male- dominated setting.

“Let me see you safely to your friend.” Feeling oddly protective of a woman he’d just met, he nearly held out his arm for her to take. Instead, he put out a hand in a gesture to indicate she should accompany him.

Ashford led the way to the corner of St. James’s Street and the cross street of Piccadilly. The woman walked with an awkward gait, placing her feet slowly and carefully in front of her. He imagined the boots on her feet, like her other clothes, were several sizes too big.

They turned right and walked east on Piccadilly Street. The buildings were no longer primarily of white stone but now intermingled with black or red-painted storefronts. The road was moderately busy, and several wagons passed them as they walked along the street.

“Did you travel to Piccadilly in a carriage?” he asked in a low voice as he looked about to confirm their conversation would not be overheard.

“How do you know I’m not a beggar?” the woman countered, her tone of voice not only curious but surprisingly cheerful.

Ashford couldn’t contain a chuckle. “Your disguise is dreadful. The clothing may be old and cheaply made, but it is clean and well cared for.”

“Oh my,” the lady replied with a groan.

“And you’re not very good at disguising your voice,” he added.

He heard a faint gurgle of laughter from the woman beside him, a pleasant sound. When was the last time he’d heard a woman laugh so freely?

“My friend Louisa said much the same thing.”

The young woman halted in front of a shiny black town carriage parked near the bookseller Hatchard’s at number 187 Piccadilly. The carriage faced away from their approach; the only servant visible on the box was a driver in navy blue livery and a tall silk hat. The black coach was emblazoned with a red coat of arms Ashford had seen before but couldn’t place.

“Louisa,” his companion called out, “I’m here.”

The carriage door opened, and a young woman descended the lowered steps of the vehicle. Her linen walking dress, velvet spencer, and tasteful bonnet proclaimed her status as a member of the fashionable set.

“There you are,” the lady he assumed to be Louisa said to his companion. She inclined her head as she addressed her next words to him, “Thank you for finding Lord Faversham’s new tiger. The earl took the poor thing under his wing, you see.”

Ashford didn’t see at all. Her story was not a particularly good one. If he ever saw the women again in such a predicament, he would counsel them to leave off their adventures or become more skilled at subterfuge.

“I’m glad I was nearby to prevent your friend from becoming an object of gossip.” He turned to the woman in rags, his voice now rough, “Take more care in future. You could have damaged your standing in society or come to harm.”

The two women nodded to him. He would have handed the disguised woman into the carriage, but she quickly entered the coach after Louisa with a mumbled goodbye.

The grime on the woman’s face hid her features well, but he now knew something about her. She was a member of the ton . He recalled Lord Faversham had a daughter and shook his head. The young woman Louisa had shown little caution in using the actual name of a peer in her Banbury tale.

The clouds parted, and the sun shone brightly upon the pavement around him. As the carriage rumbled away, he turned on his heel and strolled back to White’s, wondering if he would ever cross paths with the disguised young woman again. Secretly hoping he might.

Parliament was seated late this year, in February. The London season was upon the city and the ladies in the coach were most likely debutantes. He’d never been interested in the goings-on of the marriage mart, but now he found himself intrigued by one of this season’s debs, fascinated as to why a young lady of quality found it necessary to peek into the bow window of White’s.